


Half the Stars

by Saeru



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Nostalgia, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeru/pseuds/Saeru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The destiny of Cybertron will not be left to chance.</p><p>Long before there is war, or classism, or corruption, or gladiatorial combat, there is only an experiment.  Built and trained to to become great leaders of Cybertron, neither Optimus nor Megatron know what lies in store outside the sheltered warehouse they are raised in. </p><p>Neither knows that only one can leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing he knew wasn’t darkness.

‘Darkness’ was merely a word or an idea, a concept that required comparison to some other word or idea before one could realize that it was dark, or black, or empty. As someone who had no experience, no memory, no  _thing_ , he could not understand the nothing as it  _was_. It started only as that, unmemorable, and undecipherable. It  _was_  nothing.

And then suddenly, it wasn’t.

A chaos of noise and light and a million pinpricks of contact blossomed in a symphony of confusion, interwoven beyond comprehension. It wasn’t darkness, and it wasn’t nothing, and it wasn‘t absence. It merely  _was._

It was this, and it was that; It was different and it was real.

It was waves _._

__

Everything was waves. Vibrations. Frequencies. Cyclical and repetitious and unending, they bombarded his processes again and again until he started to see differences between them, piece by piece. Before he even had a concept of selfhe was defining everything by waves: this wave was faster, this was slower. This one stopped periodically, and started up again. This one was…redder than the other…yes.

It was light. It was red.

Red  _was._

__

And then, from that point onward, everything else was, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Overseer remembered standing, observing the scientists while they selected body types to use. He remembered the schematics, and the frameworks, and he remembered the endless calculations about alloys and energon consumption that had been routed back and forth until they’d reached a compromise. There would be two models they would try. Then, they would compare the results, and try a third, and a forth if necessary.

They’d drafted hundreds of component parts, and he had ensured each order was sent off for manufacture.

He remembered standing in the cargo bay, watching the endless boxes rolling in, all from different production facilities. He’d had every piece tallied, and forwarded directly to the lab, when he had followed to observe the scientists in action as they put together every part.

He had watched, as the catalogue of yet un-hosted sparks was sifted through, as each spark’s resonance was mapped out on a chart, as each point on that chart went through iteration after iteration of complicated probability densities until results were drawn. There had been four matches chosen. He had watched them take those to the incubator, too.

Yet he had  _not_ watched (directly) when each spark was radiated, split apart, heated, cooled, and bombarded with subatomic particles. He had not watched, as each spark was changed. He had not wanted to watch.

What he had not seen he couldn’t be responsible for. What he hadn’t witnessed did not incriminate him to the courts, if there had been courts for this.

There weren’t.

No one on record had tried this experiment before. If they had, they had not been caught. If they had, perhaps they had not succeeded.

Perhaps this would not succeed.

The theories were correct, however, and the funding had been present, and he had been hired. That had been enough for the project to begin.

He was the Overseer. He would see this project carried out, no matter what resulted. He would see that this went forward as planned.

So he’d watched. He’d watched the bodies be constructed, forming around dense, metallic struts. He’d watched as the first of the four changed sparks was inserted into its specifically molded frame, and given power, and activated. He watched, still, unwavering, as the first mech booted up his systems and power flowed into his optics, twisting through iterations in the processor as it mapped out the identity of its new form. He watched, now, to see what happened, and he waited, and he drew his own conclusions in the silence of his observation room.

This might have been the moment, the precipice, the crowning peak that was difficult to achieve for the chasms that surrounded it.

But it wasn’t. Not yet.

Instead, murmurs of disappointment rippled through the room, even as the scientists moved forward to take closer readings. One more attempt had to be made; this hadn’t gone right; this one was a failure. It wasn’t meant to be.

They had anticipated incorrectly, and this time they were wrong in their calculations. The Architect had selected poorly. The framework was not right.

This mech’s optics had turned red.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Initialize a secondary thread,” the Architect demanded, his voice booming even in the confines of the Overseer’s head. It had been many lunar cycles since the Architect had bothered to come, himself, leaving only too-loud messages on heavily encrypted frequencies for the Overseer to find. This was always more than acceptable.

Without even a nod, the Overseer listened to the new instructions, recording the message in his personal database where it would leave no physical trace on the hardware in the lab.

“I want another spark in another body by the next cycle. We are not giving up just yet.”

The transmission terminated and the Overseer peered across his office, remotely accessing encrypted data that indicated which three sparks were left. He selected one at random, and forwarded the message to the scientists, still hard at work.

They’d receive the message, soon enough. For now, he glanced back to the monitor, watching them finally moving away from the first subject, quietly grouping and murmuring uncertainly. Their every word would be recorded, but for the time being, he did not listen in to their debate.

There was no need.

In the back of their room he saw the second body, the altered form already waiting for spark implantation. The scientists had started pointing toward it, arguing, citing notations and theories that the Overseer merely recorded, and stored away for further use. They had received his message, and undoubtedly were doing what they had been told. He’d expected nothing less.

They were not, however, watching the first subject anymore. They did not see him tilt his head back on the operating berth, looking away from the scientists, staring, intently, at the empty shell of a mech that they were debating over. They did not see him struggling against the restraints. They did not see him give up, finally, and turn to stare directly at the monitor.

The Overseer did.

He dismissed the actions, however. These were not his test subjects. This was not his experiment. This was not his laboratory. The scientists would watch, and make recordings, and relay what was important up to him.

All that he needed to do, for now, was concentrate on his work.

He switched the monitor off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Clear blue glowing lenses looked up at the older mech, head following the direction of their focus until he could see the young face they belonged to, fully. Metallic plates slid over and under and into a familiar expression--one of the first that Number 2 had learned, and one that the Instructor saw more often than any other.

“I’m confused.” The newly-sparked mech said, words carefully chosen and accompanied by an accidental projection of transmitted chaos and perplexity.

“I’m here to help.” He responded with a constant smile, hopeful that Number 2 would familiarize himself with the expression, and try it out himself. “What can I do for you?”

The broadcast of confusion gave way to thankfulness, followed with a brief burst of frustration. “I…think that I am…receiving…an error message from…my left foot, instructor. But…we…have not yet covered….functionality…in that appendage.” His words were un-flowing and stilted, roaming through countless tonalities as he tried to fit meanings together instead of fitting sounds. It was difficult to process, even for the instructor. It hadn’t used to be.

“You’re doing better with that sentence structure program you uploaded.“ He congratulated, nevertheless, making certain not to belittle even small accomplishments. “We have not gone past your knee joints yet, but since you bring it up I think we ought to start. Do you believe your torso balance is calibrated sufficiently to try standing up today?”

The optics of his student brightened, then glanced over to the other pupil in the room as if he were still confused. “Yes instructor. But there’s a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The error message says I do not  _have_  a foot.”

Looking down, the instructor  _sighed_  warm air from his rear vents, seeing the bright blue pede exactly where it was supposed to be. Obviously, there were still some bugs to work out in the alternate programming…, but that did not stop the secondary student with red optics from kicking his legs out from the bench beside them and laughing, brandishing two grey feet in perfect working order.

Maybe there were still some bugs to work out.

And maybe some things never changed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“So we know that they have humor.” The Architect observed.

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Then give them more to learn. I want to see what else develops.”

“Acknowledged. Do you intend to keep Subject 1?”

There was only the briefest of pauses, but he did not know what answer to expect. “One never knows when one might need comparisons. Please, carry on.”

The Overseer confirmed the order and then ended the transmission, contemplating the wisdom of asking questions when the Architect had always been precise.

Having no reasoning, he jacked back into the compound‘s network. It was not his job to question, even when he knew the Architect was wrong.

It was only his job to observe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Number of significant mass planetoids in the Eurythma system?”

“Eight primary rotating bodies, fifteen moons, 3 reoccurring asteroids.”

“Boiling point of molybdenum?”

“Four-thousand and twelve exothermals.”

“What is the normal to the tangential plane at point  _A_  in Figure 4?”

“A vector of magnitude 3.17 proceeding from coordinates 3,-4 at 58 degrees.”

“Estimated number of potential star systems…”

“Approximately one sextillion…and…”

“Standard wavelength of the color red.”

“…” The student with blue optics stopped, still thrown by the astronomical estimation he’d just made, trying to grasp onto infinity and failing.

Glancing over, Number 1 looked unimpressed with the cessation of their task. “The answer is 700 nanometers…”

“No, no, not that. I know that.” He shook his head, trying to clear it of the sudden maw of immensity he had just glimpsed. “It’s just…How many stars do  _you_  think that there are?”

The other student paused, shutting off the stream of data he’d been cataloging to really think about the question asked. “It doesn’t matter.” His partner finally concluded, sitting back.

“It doesn’t matter? That’s it?” Number 2 felt somewhat disappointed with that, having hoped for something…more…to a question that seemed infinitely important, searching still for a solution that would satisfy some aching in his spark.

“There are more stars than either you or I could visit.” His friend pointed out, pausing to glance up towards a ceiling they had yet to see the other side of. “Isn’t it sort of depressing to think on more stars than we’ll touch?”

“Perhaps.” It should not have mattered, but it did.

“Are you upset with me for saying it?”

“No.”

The student with red optics laughed. “You’ll have to try harder than  _that_ to lie to me, you know.”

He contemplated exercising visible derision for being called out on that, but he still could not deny the truth. “It’s just…does it not bother you at all? To realize how big everything is, and how small we are?”

That thinking look was back, and he steeled himself for further disappointment.

It didn’t come.

“If you are worried, then don‘t worry about how many you won‘t visit.” His friend grinned. “Think about how many you  _will_. Think about only half a sextillion stars, and focus on those, and let me focus on the other ones. I‘ll transmit my experiences to you when we‘re done.”

Blue optics widened to let in more light, capturing the situation in its moment perfectly as the words filtered through his processor and sparked a hundred thousand different possibilities, all of them good.

He’d never thought on it like that, but it struck something in him that he liked.

“You genius.” Number 2 laughed, nudging the other and booting back up his own tutorials. “I think you’ve stumbled on a better way to do our homework.”

“Oh? Well if you’ll take on repair mechanics I’ll finish up with engineering?”

“I like that plan!”

They carried on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“As you suspected, the primary subject’s rate of understanding increases when in proximity to another spark. It is almost like he can use another being as his catalyst, and take advantage of their thoughts to augment his own.”

“This is different from standard learning?” The Overseer asked.

He was immediately handed a data pad to glance at, and his grip tightened minutely with surprise.

“As you can see, he’s nearly three times more effective with a partner than without. This is a good sign.” The scientist continued, as if there had been no doubt.

“It is positive, yes.”

“Are we still keeping the…ah…defective subject?”

He looked down to the graphs, downloading the data through external feed and processing, saying nothing while he analyzed results.

“Sir?”

“Initialize a tertiary thread. You will be informed before its activation.”

He said nothing more, and the scientist left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was loosely based on an idea given to me by one of the IDW staff years ago. Apparently, at one point, Megatron was supposed to have been a military experiment in a project that ended up scrapped, and he was shipped off to the mines, instead. Due to crazy mixups with Megatron:Origins during the mass exodus from Dreamwave, this plot point never actually occurred.
> 
> But what if it had?
> 
> I wondered on it, and wondered on it, and eventually started writing this. Its a little removed from the initial idea of a 'military experiment,' but it fit the theme of matrix bearers being 'primed' for matrix acceptance that came out with issue #23. Considering I started writing it two years before that point, I'm pleased that it still mostly fits.


	2. Chapter 2

Red optics flickered as the student streamed the last compendium of binary computations. He sat completely still while the information trickled in, still enough that the instructor could hear the quiet rustling of data-transfer, pushing like static in the back of his receptors. His student reached down when he was done, disconnecting the finished data stick, setting it aside, and already reaching for another file that had been prepared for him.

The instructor sighed, and marked a red dot on the end of the used stick as it was quietly shelved back into the hub. Today, more than 20 different specialties had been downloaded by his student: Art critique. Hand to hand combat. Quantum mechanics. More. The routine was one that he was badly out of practice handling, but he at least remembered all the service codes by spark. He could still accurately call forth needed data.

He could still process these selections to predict the future of a mech.

Before his retirement, he’d guided a total of 1,534 protoforms from their activation into service. He’d fostered politicians with adaptive logic programming and undeniable charisma, and he’d fostered servicemechs that worked in transportation, ensuring that they were just as familiar with the physical laws of gravity as any scientist he’d programmed. Each mech had their place. Each mech served a lifelong purpose.

Each mech was carefully taught everything they‘d need to know, given downloads specifically formatted for the station they would occupy, and given augmentations to perform those tasks. When they were ready, they were realeased to Cybertron to do their part. They would be fully equiped to handle their first job.

The knowledge he’d bestowed upon them was sacred, and purposeful _._

It wasn’t meant to be devoured like this.

Every entry in his data pad encompassed lifetimes of experiences, millions of years of careful study made ready for students. Each dot he marked on a data-stick today could have been enough information for a career in itself, more data than one mech could process immediately. It should have been impossible for these to be eaten up so fast, to be swallowed up by his red-eyed student in an instant like some gaping maw consuming every iota of light.

Yet somehow, he was. Somehow, he did not seem to notice this was wrong, at all. “Does your processor hurt?” he asked, concerned.

“Should it?” came the reply as another disk ejected, and small grey-silver fingers reached for more.

“Yes,” he supplied, truthfully, staring in awe at one of his two mysterious prodigies, waiting for any sign of information overload or stuttering functions. Not for the first time, those signs didn’t come. Not for the first time, he worried about how long this would last. He tried not to wonder how illegal their existence was…

But an eager hand still waited, and it was his job to supply.

If he’d been paid to think, he wouldn’t have become a teacher.

He’d used to be paid to teach  _others_ to think, and in that, he had excelled. The job had been wearing, though. Time, itself, had been wearing.

He’d retired. He’d moved on. He was no longer bound by the rules that Instructors before him had set or by the rules that he had set for future generations. He could not, alone, question the existence of these child-mechs entrusted to him…

But he could lead them to question their existence for themselves.

“…let me give you some unlisted files, Number 1. Downloads that aren’t…these. I think that they might come in handy.”

Slowly, a smirk emerged on the student’s face as implications dawned.

In front of him, a silver hand awaited any knowledge he could give it.

It was his job to supply.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Hallways flew by, filled with doors, and then stairways flew by, filled with stairs…level after level of them. A hundred levels, a hundred doors, a thousand stairs, all dusty except for footprints made by him.

His pounding footfalls did not stop as he hammered through a doorway that impeded him-- _the_ doorway--catching sight of red metal and surprised blue optics that signaled he was  _home_ again, having found the right door at the end of a long day.

He hadn’t taken the lifts, and he’d learned to ignore the cameras and the locked doors, because  _this_  door was not locked, and  _this_  door was important.

It was right next to his door.

No words were spoken, either, as a blue hand grasped a silver hand and they were running down the hall again, together, now, and up more and more and more stairs, factory-new servos taking the flights as if they were nothing.

The blue mech, as always, was waiting at the top--

And, inwardly, he could not help but curse, lacking the words to even know what a curse should be but knowing the frequencies for disappointment. He’d hoped, so hard, that if they tried immediately after lessons they’d be able to sneak by…

But the sentinel still was always standing there, and they were not allowed to pass.

For a moment, a streak of anger flickered through his chest-plate, cutting past the disappointment and prompting new thoughts in his processor, unlocking days of downloaded combat routines, manners of possible subterfuge, and confidence he hadn’t known he’d have. He didn’t want to be stopped, today.

He didn’t have to be.

He threw a punch…

…but the blue sentinel caught it, shook his head once, and quietly let him go.

That was that.

“I thought you were actually going to hit him, for a moment there.” Blue optics looked over, and a small hand squeezed his own in comfort, trying to break through the discontent.

“I tried,” was all that he could speak--but the frustrations finally evaporated beneath Number 2’s steady honest gaze, and the tightness in his chest was gone.

A few levels later, the blue hand pulled him into an abandoned corridor, and they transformed, rolling through long-forgotten dust and grime and chasing away their sorrows in a game of tag.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

“You have not let them chose their names, yet.” The Instructor sighed, tapping the nub of a stylus-modified finger against a data pad, pausing in the middle of his report. ‘Subject 1’ and ‘Subject 2’ did not ring true to him, no matter how many times he’d written it.

“I am aware. Designations would promote attachment. Attachment is unwise.”

Already, he was having to null prompt another sigh. “I know. I know that this is an experiment, and that it is not my job to ask questions. But you have to realize that…” Failing any other method of showing his displeasure, he simply shook his head, old hydraulics protesting loudly into the silence of the room. “That if they’re ever going to be useful on Cybertron, being named is an important part of their development. It's  _bad luck_ \--”

The blue mech raised a hand, and cut him off.  "Have they displayed any desire to create designations?”

“Not yet.”

“Is it not proper for young mechs to chose their own?”

“Traditional, maybe.” He sighed, not liking the direction that this argument was taking. “But little else in this environment follows tradition. You never instructed me to provide them with the naming files.” Scrolling down through his report, he passed by hundreds of ‘1’s and ‘2’s, differentiated by red optics and blue, silver paint and red.

“Do not.”

“I‘m sorry?”

“Do not. There is nothing they can chose. There is nothing that will fit them. Just do not.” A hand was held out for the report, connecting in, downloading, then erasing countless hours of observations like they had not happened at all. “They will know what they are. It is best that you do not.” The hand retracted, and the blue mech turned.

“I…understand.”

He didn’t, but there was nothing more that he could do. He put away the data pad, and left.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

“This is my victory, again!” Number 1’s voice shouted, firm, still young, and booming--not like the Tutor’s voice, but rich and filled with assuredness.

Number 2 couldn’t mistake the confidence in those red optics, already declaring their victory. He couldn’t mistake how focused on the here and now his best friend was, or how perfectly he was executing his attack, barreling towards him, unwavering. Number 1 had always been so confident. Number 1 had always been so sure.

However, Number 1 had finally made a mistake. His red optics weren’t looking at the ground. So long as Number 2 kept his own blue lenses focused, his opponent wouldn’t notice the foot he was carefully sliding into place.

He’d have Number 1, at last.

Silver limbs went sprawling, instantly, even faster than he had expected as the other’s foot caught, mid step, on his. He reached out, surprised, trying to catch the silver frame in his blue arms, but finding the momentum much too great. They both were falling.

They both were falling, but he’d finally won.

He could not help but laugh.

“I’m allowed at least one triumph, right?” Number 2 asked, collapsing with the other in a pile on the floor, trying not to be smashed underneath still-flailing limbs.

“Only if it is just one!” His partner grinned, red optics flashing as they always did when he was humored. “But don’t expect it to to be so easy next time!” Number 1 elbowed him, trying to find a place to put his knee stabilizer that wasn’t uncomfortable, and not having much luck.

“Don‘t tell me that was easy.” Number 2 shook his head, not moving, preferring not to accidentally be kneed somewhere unpleasant.

“Fighting me shouldn‘t be!” His partner grinned, and finally just gave up and rolled off. “But this means you get your choice of downloads, finally. Which one do you want--Habitable Planets of Quadrant 3, or the Legacy of the Primes?”

Still half in the sprawled pile of mis-matched appendages, he did not mind so much when the other shifted, taking weight off of his unarmored areas. Sometimes, the bare metal struts beneath the panels hurt when they were touched, especially when force was placed upon them. Number 1 had noticed that early enough in sparring to take advantage of it. It had been an unfortunate set of days, until he’d realized how to do it back. Now, they left those spots alone.

His partner didn’t yet rise from the floor, however. When Number 2 glanced over to see why, he saw a silver wrist-port exposed.

“You’re only giving me  _two_  choices? I hardly see how this is fair.” Dislodging his own arm, he reached out to take the offered input jack, connecting carefully into the other’s systems and waiting for their signals to synchronize. It was second nature, at this point. He could have transferred files while he recharged, they’d done this so many times.

“It's absolutely fair. I’ve read through all the other ones, and these are the most interesting. The Instructor gave them especially to me.” His partner rolled onto his chest plates, then stopped moving when the connection synched, keeping still to prevent extra movement data from eking through the line. “So which one am I sending to you…Planets or Primes?”

The files both came up pending in the data queue, and he glanced over the descriptions. It was hard to chose between history and exploration. Both were topics he couldn’t help but love.

“Take Primes,” his brother prompted.

“What for?”

Red optics bore into his own, waiting for something, searching his lenses as if they could see electrons moving through the circuitry behind them. He’d never seen a look like that, or been so unaware of what his friend was thinking, his servos quiet while neither of them fidgeted during their connection. It was absolutely still.

And then the other cocked his head.

“Because you should. That’s all,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been staring. "Their sparks are like yours. Their optics are like yours. And it just…is….” His partner frowned, and shifted, causing a burst of informational static to filter through the line. “…It just is what you ought to do.”

Confused, he could only shake his head. “I did not think that you believed in coincidences like that.”

“We’re not even a cycle old, you realize. I don’t have to believe in  _anything_  I haven’t seen yet--including fate. Including Cybertron.”

“We’re  _on_  Cybertron!”

“Are we?”

The red glow was closer now, and even more intense. He felt the pressure from his friend weighing down on him, challenging him, and, at the very same time still encouraging him. To think. To prove himself. To know _._

__

“I’ll take Primes then.  _And_  Planets, if just so I can show you our coordinates, alright?”

It seemed to be the right answer, because his friend finally released him from the stare. “Alright. But I want to have another go at you, so you can earn it. Neither one of us are good enough to get past the blue mech.”

“But….”

“But what?” The other smirked, transmitting the pair of files and sitting up, not even disconnecting as his movement sent a dizzying wave of synapses. It was difficult to think through, but Number 2 knew the answer, still.

“Its not like either of us  _has_  to be good enough on our own,” he replied, seriously, his hand gripping the solidness of the ground.

The silence was telling, but when he got his bearings back and glanced once more to his friend, he could tell the meaning had sunk home. Number 1 knew what he’d been talking about.

They’d spent so long fighting each other in their spare time that he’d forgot the reason they were fighting, in the first place. They had a mission to visit every star. They had lessons that had given them their skills. They had each other.

When his partner smiled this time, it was a motion they both shared, a feeling that they didn’t even need a hardline to connect over.

“I don’t know what I would do without you, you know.”

“Try not to think about it!” He laughed, not minding at all. “We’ll make it to the roof, up to the top, I promise you, neither of us left behind. And when we do--we’ll see the cities of this ‘Cybertron’ before us. Together.”

A silver helm touched briefly on a blue one, optics meeting, close…

And then parting, once more, disconnecting to leave them both alone, but with their common goal.

He stood and dropped into a stance.

“So let's get going,” He agreed, and activated a new training program, ready to take on faceless enemy mechs instead of his silver comrade.

They’d make it to the roof, no matter how many sentinels were waiting.

They’d continue. Together.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“The host for the tertiary thread has now been activated,” the Overseer transmitted, reporting on schedule.

“…And?” the Architect prompted.

“The signs are positive. The third subject possesses blue optics.”

“I was right, then. There was some  _importance_ in the selection of the host’s alternate mode, and not in just the augmentation of the spark.”

“Affirmative,” The Overseer replied, confirming what he’d already known.

“Then continue the project as specified,” The Architect droned on. “Begin quaternary and quinary threads using approximating variations on those spark protocols, and select similar hosts. Introduce our second subject to our third when he is ready, and cull the expenditure on any unnecessary outlets.”

“Sir?” the Overseer asked, needing to make certain that ’cull the expenditure’ meant what he thought it meant.

“Get rid of Subject 1,” the Architect re-affirmed.

“Yes, sir.”

The transmission ended almost as abruptly as it began, and he proceeded to relay instructions to the laboratory team. They would need to be away, for this. They would need to keep the Third Subject in stasis, as well.

It was too late to back down, now.

The Architect had already known that this was coming. He had prepared for it, long before Subject 1 had even been activated. He had made certain that the Overseer knew exactly who to contact, now.

He wondered, as he transmitted the final message, how well they would manage. He wondered how much he would have to fix when they were done. He wondered, for a moment, if this was even necessary…

…but he did not wonder on that, for long.

The comparisons were over.

It was long past time for him to clean up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I mentioned in the notes last chapter that this story was written two years ago. 
> 
> I guess the interesting thing, for me, is that it actually took two years to write. I'd only write on it when I got time, and when I was alone, and when no one was watching. In fact, I didn't mention this story to anyone until it was done.
> 
> Then I started writing Signature. 
> 
> Needless to say when I finally came back to 'Half the Stars,' my writing style had completely changed. I've heard people say that the road to success in writing is to just get that first 100,000 words under your belt, and now that I'm finally starting to approach that, I can see what they mean. I had to completely re-write 'Half the Stars,' and I'm still not entirely happy with it. I can only imagine how I'll feel after another two years fly by. x-x
> 
> One of the goals when I started out was to develop a little bit of world-building on how the first cycle or so of life went for a Cybertronian, and I'm happy that most of that got to remain. It always seemed strange to me that, despite Cybertronians being machines that you could program anything into, somehow they had specialists like 'doctors' and 'musicians.' I wondered how it could be that EVERYONE wasn't programmed to be able to do these things. 
> 
> But, in a way, maybe that's what makes Optimus and Megatron a little special. Not that they remember and are capable of doing every possible thing, but that they understand the work involved with all of it, and thus understand how to build a good team. 
> 
> More on that, in Chapter 4...


	3. Chapter 3

He found himself running, harder than he’d ever run before.

Number2 was next to him, their hands gripped tightly together, their senses heightened past nominal operating levels. The hallways were dark, but that didn‘t matter. He knew where he was heading. There was nowhere else to go. Around him, metal clanked and echoed as their footfalls hit the concrete and moved on, their limbs compensating for the expenditure of energy, their intakes cycling fast.

He saw the flash behind him before he heard it, and let go of Number 2’s blue hand, pushing hard against the red and white torso to force them apart.

It was just in time. He felt the heat warming his shoulder, closely, as laser fire shot past where he‘d been.

This was like a training simulation. He was reacting on instinct, and on the hundreds of hours he and Number 2 had logged. They were as prepared as they would ever be.

This was like a training simulation, except that it wasn’t one, at all.

He didn‘t want to know what happened if he lost.

“You fool,” harsh voices echoed, more than one set of hydraulics propelling the strange mechs behind them--mechs that Number 1 had never seen before. He’d never seen such shapes, and never seen such weaponry, and never seen such cold optics of red and green and purple that had looked down on them in the darkness where they’d been curled together.

They’d tried to pry him from his brother, in the night.

“Don’t hit the red one,” they said, now.

He was not the red one.

They would have hit him, if he hadn’t moved in time. They would have hit him, if he’d been staying in his room, alone, where he was supposed to be.

They would hit him now, if they got the chance.

He ran harder.

His brother stumbled, struggling to keep up with the change of pace. Glancing back, he wordlessly urged Number 2 on, meeting frantic blue optics and trying not to be discouraged by them. His own fear was too great.

He knew he wasn‘t hiding it well, either, but Number 2 only shook his head, raising a single blue finger to his lips. There was still one hope. There was still one chance they had to make it, and it was a chance that he would gladly take.

_

The stairs.

_

Wordlessly the notion passed between them, and wordlessly they linked their hands again, aware now of what the men were after and who they _wouldn’t_ shoot. It was useful. They would use it.

They’d escape.

There were mechs waiting on the stairs, as well, but they knew to anticipate that tactic. They had tactics of their own, planned just for this, planned for dual combat against mechs who blocked their pathway to the rooftop. Number 2 shifted ahead of him, moving to intercept fire that they’d learned wouldn’t come. The strangers weren’t aiming for the red one. They wouldn’t fire, while he was in front.

Heightened battle programming sped them up and they moved forward, taking to the stairway, processing faster than anything they’d done in simulation with each other. He didn’t let go of the blue hand. This time, he could not.

Instead, he tightened his grip, an idea forming as his counterpart shifted momentum, stalling just enough to swing him towards the obstacles before them. He kicked out. Mechs fell.

This was just as planned.

The two of them were fast, and they were strong, and it wasn’t until now that he could see how strong they were. Their enemy was not prepared for this much strength. Their enemy kept behaving as Number 1 expected.

They would use that, too.

But once on the stairs, heading upwards, they were horribly exposed.

Fire rained down from above, hitting the railings and sending sparks flying and molten bits of metal scattering to singe sensitive, unarmored joints. Pain was a new concept, a new lesson, and one they didn’t have time to absorb. His brother cried out.

Number 1 reacted instantly to that sound. He moved forward, watching like an outsider as his silver hands pulled the railing off of the wall, ripping steel from duracrete. Now, he was armed.

He was armed just in time. A shadow stepped around the corner of the landing, and he saw the glowing barrel of a gun. There was no chance to hesitate, and there was no chance to think. He only had a moment, and he acted.

He jammed the broken railing out.

His dentals gritted at the force, putting his weight behind the motion, hearing the satisfactory crunch of glass and screeching metal. He was surprised at how much strength was required. He was surprised he’d had it, too.

The orange mech screamed.

Number 1 jumped back, startled, narrowly avoiding being backhanded by the thrashing mech. He stayed back, horrified, as the mech violently threw his gun to the side, clutching at the metal beam protruding from his chest plate, still screaming. For once, he felt like he couldn‘t move. Their faceless opponents had never screamed, in simulations. Their faceless opponents had never twitched like this.

He felt cold, and frozen, and for once he wasn’t certain what to do.

“We can’t stay here.“ Number 2 whispered, nudging him, sending him a brief transmitted query and scrambling forward to pick up the gun. He knew his brother was right, and knew that there were more mechs on the way, eager to kill him, eager to cause him the same sort of pain he saw in the orange mech, now. He couldn’t help but watch the way that their opponent struggled, fascinated and terrified by the flash of bright light peeking out from around the edges of the puncture wound, held in place by dimming optics as the mech fell to his knees.

He needed contact with something, and reached out. Number 2’s fingers instantly met his, and he could feel them trembling, his brother needing comfort, too. That…helped.

It helped enough to jar him, to remind him how imperative it was they go. He could feel his feet, again, barely, the warm sensation of necessity finally cutting through the cold terror of shock.

With only a motion they were running again, hand in hand.

Everything was wrong.

It had already been wrong, and it was getting worse. More shots were fired, making it harder and harder to duck and dodge. They still had several flights to go before they even reached the landing to the roof, and there were mechs pounding up the stairs behind them, distant, but gaining speed. They needed to rethink. They needed a new strategy. They needed a way out, but there was no more time. Someone’s hand squeezed, tightly, reassuring…

And then pain flared in his shoulder, worse than anything he’d felt before.

He screamed, himself, and slammed against the wall, trying to find cover on the open stairwell and failing. He could hear footsteps moving quickly down from one landing above. He couldn’t think.

He’d been hit. His arm was limp. He was exposed.

He was exposed, except that suddenly Number 2 was blocking him, shielding him, raising the weapon that he’d grabbed. He couldn’t see, then, but he didn’t need to, taking the few precious seconds that his brother had given him to get his bearings back. He was safe, for now, even amidst the too-loud concussive of a rifle, hidden behind the terrifying might of Number 2’s ranged combat, the complement to his own melee. He heard another strange mech fall, tumbling down the stairs toward him, and through the static eating at his sensors he saw his friend’s blue optics wince and glance back, his red frame shuddering with realization.

“We’re killing them.” He whispered, lost.

“Better than them killing us.” He managed to cough out, understanding his brother’s shock from his own worries of only a minute ago. This was not what either of them wanted to be doing, now. This was not the way things ought to be.

“But this is not like training.” Number 2 began to shiver, shouldering the gun with a strap that was too big for his young build, looking out of place against the pockmarked stairway they’d been laughing in a few hours before. They both could hear more footsteps coming, but that didn’t stop his friend from checking on him, now, bending over the singed arm, soothing the pain with a simple transmission. _It will be alright._

“It’s not like training, but…we can’t afford to think that way.” He grimaced, trying to override the alerts that would not stop coming, trying to cancel error messages that warned him of his useless arm. “If we don’t make it together, then one of us will die, and I can’t _lose_ you like this…”

“You won’t.” The red mech smiled, taking his hand, a momentary thread of undeniable connection extending between them.

_

You’ll never lose…

_

The thought began…

And was torn free, unexpectedly, as blue optics went out.

… _me._

He couldn’t stop himself from staring at the long blade that extended from his brother’s torso, at the empty sockets that had, moments ago, been full of light. They hadn’t even heard this mech sneak up. They hadn’t even heard him.

And now…

This couldn’t have been right. They were trying to kill _him_. They were trying to shoot _him_. They weren’t supposed to hurt Number 2. They weren’t supposed to stab him.

They’d done everything wrong _._

“…..brother…..brother?”

Half of him felt suddenly too-far off, filling with cold and dead weight and a million pings and transmissions that tried to reach where his brother was going, and could not. The void was washing over him like cold water, like pain, like the shadow of the dark mech who’s sword was in his brother. There was a tug at the end of his arm, the still-warm hand that he held suddenly slipping from his grasp while Number 2’s knees buckled, the dark mech pulling his weapon from the now-limp frame.

His brother did not answer.

There would be no answer, any more.

His red optics flared, and glanced up, meeting the yellow optics that had sealed his brother’s fate.

“My lesson plan was incomplete.” He murmured, eyeing the sword, already calculating three hundred ways to take it. “I didn‘t know about vengeance, until now.”

He didn’t wait to act.

He had lost every reason to.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

The Overseer waited, hidden at the top of the stairs.

He’d been waiting, knowing where the twins would go, standing in the shadows and listening for their familiar voices, showing no outward signs of worry every time a blaster fired. There was nothing to worry about. He’d known the team the Architect had hired wouldn’t be enough. He’d known he’d be the last one standing, and he’d known he’d be the one to clean up.

It was convenient, this way. There would be no witnesses.

The project would continue on as it must--as it did every millennia when new Matrix bearers were needed--as it should have, if the Architect had not led it off task. He’d remain here, patient, and let the brothers come.

The weapons fire had already started to slow.

He listened, carefully, marking each sound as he screams of the retrieval team stopped. Distantly, there was the clatter of a body down the stairwell, and the sound of a rifle being dropped. Then, for a moment, there was silence.

That should have been the last of them.

It was.

Now, all he needed to do was wait, his own weapon at the ready.

He could already hear the sound of tiny footsteps, shakily ascending.

They were unsteady, but constant: one, then the other, then a shuffling sound and a grunt, the straining of taxed pistons and hydraulics and metal grinding against metal, a broken engine belt whistling through hollow housing.

Only one engine was making noise. Only one had made it through this mess.

Even that one wouldn’t make it far, he could tell. As the small mech rose over the top of the stairs he collapsed, an entire pile of tangled red, white, blue, and silver shuddering onto the last landing. Subject 1 was missing an arm, and sparking, and only silver in memory underneath a layer of drying energon mostly not his own. Subject 2 was with him, dragged along, bearing the scrapes of several flights of stairs over his once-red frame, leaking heavily from a jagged torso hole.

Only Subject 1 was moving. Someone was going to pay for that.

But it was Subject 1 who had made it, despite all odds. If this had been a test, it would have surprised the Architect to learn that it had been the first subject--the failure--who had passed.

It was ironic then, that it was Subject 1 whom the Overseer had been ordered to kill. In an instant, it would all be over. In an instant, he could wrap this up.

Subject 1’s red optics were dim, his engine straining to compensate for the diminishing fuel that was leaking from his arm joint. He looked around, still wary, still waiting for an attack. His attention lingered the longest over the shadows where the Overseer waited, but could not penetrate the gloom, and passed over him to glance toward the doorway.

It was shut.

The Overseer’s laser powered up, ready for the protoform to run toward it, ready for the excuse to fire, ready for the inevitable end to come.

It didn’t.

Even with the temptation of freedom waiting nearby, Subject 1 did not move from his brother’s side.

Instead, he shook him. He shook him gently, and pleaded with him in a voice too low to overhear, and then shook him harder, his pitch rising. He shook him again and again and then tried standing up, pulling at him, shouting and pointing at the door. For a few feet, the silver mech was able to drag the other, one-armed.

Then, unable to bear the load under the strain of his injuries, he fell.

He cried out when he hit the ground, hard, his hand not moving fast enough to catch him as he slammed onto his rear. He sat there for a moment, stunned, staring straight ahead, his optics blank. Even after a minute passed, he did not look toward the door again, and he did not look back at Subject 2. His body shuddered, once.

Unconcerned, the Overseer headed forward.

The soft, red glow from the protoform’s optics did not waver, and did not glance toward him as he left the shadows at last. His footfalls made no noise as he crept through the gloom, his audials straining to catch any hint of motion from the small mech he was heading toward. Even wounded as the subject was, he would not be underestimated.

Something, however, was not right.

The Overseer could hear his quiet keening in the stillness, echoing and getting lost in the vast depths of the stairs. It stopped, abruptly, choked back, and when the small mech finally rose back up to his feet, it was only to crouch at the body of his brother. He didn’t seem aware of his surroundings. He didn’t seem to care.

Almost methodically, he tried to start cleaning off the extra energon that had splashed onto his brother’s face.

He smudged it.

By the time he looked back up, the Overseer was already on him, kneeling, his black gun pressed against the young black helm. Even though the thick, shielded metal, at this range a single shot would end this all.

Shocked red optics looked up to meet his yellow visor and Subject 1’s motor kicked on, his good hand sweeping up to grab the blaster rifle, fingers tightening over the warming metal…

And then falling, a moment later, in acceptance.

“Go ahead,” Subject 1 spoke. “He won’t wake up.”

The voice was young, and strong, and defiant, full of pain and full of knowledge and emotions that the Overseer should have been able to read but couldn’t. That was no longer his job. It should not have concerned him to know.

“You can take me where he has gone, can‘t you?” Subject 1 asked, his small fingers curling over the scratched surface of his brother’s frame.

“Affirmative.” The Overseer replied.

“Then why are you the only one to hesitate?”

He did not know.

Slowly, the rifle lowered. Slowly, he offered the silver mech his hand.

Slowly, it was taken.

“What happens now?” Asked the voice, as small as a whisper and as large as uncertainty.

“You are supposed to die.”

“Oh. Well.” Silver lips parted, and red optics dimmed. There was a tiny sigh. “Alpha Trion never taught us how to do _that_.”

“No.” The Overseer replied. “So now you learn.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Number 1 stood on the rooftop, at last, staring out at Cybertron before him, small silver hand in larger blue one, a million buildings with a million lights laid out like stars.

“So this is what it looks like.” He remarked, as calmly as if he were reading a description on a datapad.

“Affirmative,” said the Blue Mech.

“Its not as big as I would have imagined.” Came the final surmise, red optics glancing up to yellow ones.

“How big does one imagine it?” The Blue mech asked, emotionless, but apparently indulging him nonetheless.

“As big as I want,” he easily countered.

“How big…is that?”

Number 1 stopped and really thought about it, and looked out across the city, and then looked _up._

“As big as half the stars.” He smiled, sadly, choosing one in particular that would be _his_ , and a billion more to conquer after that--half the stars to visit, just as he had promised.

“That…is all?”

“Well, no.” The silver mech frowned, shaking his head. “But at least it is a start.”

“Affirmative.”

“What happens now, then?”

“Now?”

“Can I follow Number 2?”

The blue mech paused, and pulled out a weapon that Number 1 had never seen before, removing it carefully from his shoulder. “…affirmative.”

He was not scared, he had decided.

As long as he could find his brother, he would tear down half the stars.

The weapon flashed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Everything ended.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

And then, everything began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hardly know what to say about this section, other than that it was a pain to re-write. I'm still not happy with it, but I'm also deathly ill right now, so I may come back and do some edits when my head is finally on straight.
> 
> I don't usually do action.
> 
> Doing action without using any names, though? Frag. I'm still trying to go through and check to make sure I got all the pronouns right. 
> 
> So now, to start editing the final chapter. Horrible, beautiful angst ahoy.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“History progresses on a schedule, Soundwave.” The Architect admonished, pacing in front of him, finally present now to oversee the project’s end. “But even history‘s schedule was never as exacting as yours.” The words were spoken easily, deliberately, as his employer shuffled through three data-pads, flipping back and forth between red, pink, and white. “You disposed of him?”

“Affirmative.”

“And you sent the remains off to the mines to be smelt.”

A silver data-pad with slightly blackened edges slid easily out of his gold-edged chest plate, a single nod confirming the completion of the task. The data-pad was handed over. The Architect gave it his seal, plugged a port in, and downloaded what was left. Then, almost casually, he broke the pad over his knee.

The screen cracked.

“It is a wonder,” The Architect murmured, dropping the two halves, “That this process never existed until now. That we used to rely on fate and on religion _._ ” There was no derision in his voice. He didn’t dare. The mech was too pleased with what he had accomplished to mock what might have come before.

Soundwave did not share in that pleasure. He knew what systems had worked, in the past, and what hadn’t. He knew they hadn’t needed back-up threads, before.

“Thisis our future, now.” Number 2’s red data pad was raised, brandished like a weapon against a foreseen adversity that hadn‘t yet arrived. “And we almost lost him, because he risked himself to save a friend. Out of three sparks I knew there’d be at least one that was viable, but this turned out better than I’d hoped. He’ll be the one.”

Number 2 had screamed each night for solar cycles, even after they’d repaired the hole in his chest. The scientists had strapped him down, fixing even the tiniest of scratches, rebuilding the mech to look like new. They’d given him new programming, and new armor. They’d given him a new brother, the third spark, whose optics were also blue.

There had been some progress, then, but the screaming hadn’t stopped.

Eventually, they‘d simply erased the memories in both Subject 2 and Subject 3, and began them both over anew.

Perhaps Soundwave had imagined it, but there‘d been more screaming, after that.

“We‘ll raise him to be Prime” The Architect spoke, softly, a hint of static lacing through his voice. He was distracted, flipping through the data on the red pad. He didn’t even seem to notice how his motions slowed.

Soundwave had not suspected that he would.

“And it is all because of me.”

Soundwave did not feel that was something to be proud of. “Affirmative,” was all he said, and waited, as he always did.

The Architect slowed to a complete stop, still staring at the red data pad. “…because of me.” He murmured, once again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


 

He was still in the same position a decicycle later when his engine shut down.

Out of the silence Soundwave moved, quietly gathering the two pads from the table and the one, broken, silver pad up from the floor, cleaning the room of debris. He didn’t have to wipe all traces of the virus for once, noting conveniently that the Architect had done that for himself.

He retrieved the final red pad from the Architect’s cold, stiff-jointed fingers, and walked away.

The cycle had run full circle, meddling aside. The young mech known as Optimus would one day be Prime, as he had been made to do, and nobody but Soundwave would know. It was as it should be.

His mission was complete.

This, now, was the real clean-up…the swift, encompassing erasure of what had transpired within the warehouse, the necessary disposal of the scientists, the understanding nod to Alpha Trion, and the long, slow preparations for what would come next.

Soundwave, this time, did not feel so eager to face that.

Soundwave was not certain what he wanted, any more.

Instead, he closed the doorway to his office and signaled to the Cassettes that he was coming home. He’d wrapped up here. Optimus and Ultra Magnus had already been moved to their final homes, and Megatron…

Well.

That would remain to be seen.

Soundwave departed, and did not look back.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

  


It didn’t take much longer for the white-hot electrical fire to start up, deep within the Architects dead circuits. The fire caught, quickly, burning through his hydraulic fluids, trickling closer and closer toward the stacks of energon waiting in the corner of the room, sputtering and consuming as it crept.

The resulting explosion was bright enough, and dangerous enough, to make the newscasts that evening. Megatron remembered those newscasts long after, the first real public feed he’d downloaded etching its purpose onto his processors. He’d watched it with the other soon-to-be miners, hunched over one tiny data-pad, learning the early lesson of just how volatile energon could be.

He’d been the first to catch the vid when it aired and he was the last one still crouching over it when the hazard reports concluded at last.

It had burned bright for a long, long time.

He remembered that, too.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


 

“Your optics are blue.” Optimus noted, one day, handing newly acquired data over to his brother, looking through job listings in the Daily Schems.

“They’ve always been blue.” Ultra Magnus responded, an odd tone insinuating that he knew Optimus was going through one of his ‘moods’ again, even as he highlighted an opening for Autobot Security teams. The pad was handed back to the red truck-alt, who glanced down at it and hit confirm. It was an excellent opportunity for their first job: with Elita, they made one hell of a group. “Are you alright, Optimus?”

“Yes.” He answered, optics focusing on something out the window in the night sky. “I’m sorry, Ultra Magnus.” The red mech sighed, after a moment, and finally tore his gaze down from the stars. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I would recommend a standard defragmentation, in case this signifies a deeper, underlying problem.” He suggested, coming as close as he could to concern for the mech that he’d grown up beside.

“You’re right,” His frame-twin replied, “And I will. Its just that…”

“It’s just?”

Optimus glanced at him, searching his optics, seeking something with an intensity that Ultra Magnus rarely saw him put toward anything but learning. He let the look continue, wondering what his friend would find.

However, whatever he was seeing didn’t seem to satisfy him, and he finally turned away.

“It’s just that sometimes, when I am not looking at you, Ultra Magnus…I remember that your optics used to be red.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Prowl snapped back from the monitor, reeling as if he had been struck. One leg buckled for a moment before it recovered, catching Prowl as he fell, still holding the data-line steady. His input jack was still connected to the tower. He hadn’t faltered, despite what obviously seemed like pain.

Optimus recognized that. Digital warefare.

Soundwave.

“Sir, the Southern bunker has been hit!”

“We’ve got casualties!” Bee called from the other side of the room, his hand held to his ear to receive the calls as they came in. “Civilians and our troops, alike. They‘re requesting backup! Probably need medics, too, it looks like Megatron sent fliers.”

Optimus hesitated.

He shouldn’t have.

Leading was not new to him. He remembered gunning for the position of Security Captain since he had made it on the force, like everybody else. He remembered being one of the newest models to make the rank, too. He‘d done what he’d had to do for cycles, learning the ins and outs of making hard decisions, learning how to live with those decisions, and learning how to make better ones no matter what problems came up. He’d hardly been new to leading by the time that he’d been given the matrix.

He’d hardly been new to this.

Directing a squad had never been the same as directing an army, though. He’d had to learn new lessons on the battlefield, and had to pay new prices every day. He’d weathered losses, and carried the Autobots on to more than one victory, and he‘d done it half on hope and half on instinct. The silent era of Decepticon politicking was long gone. There hadn’t been a day of rest for him, yet.

There wasn’t rest, now, but there was still hesitation. Something wasn’t right.

He had every idea what they were expecting of him, and he knew every moment wasted was another life he could have saved.

It still wasn’t fair _._

It never had _been_ fair, forcing him to chose one mech over another, and at the onset of each battle he wondered what fate brought him to this.

Megatron was ruthless, experienced, intelligent, and in command of forces that were growing every day. No one knew where he had come from, only that he’d shown up on illegal holo-vids back when Optimus was in Security and now was holding half of Cybertron. It hurt Optimus, to know how much that mech had taken from the planet, and how much that mech had taken from himself. He was fast. He knew where to hit. He struck when Prime was least expecting it…

…and he was here.

There was no explanation for the feeling, but he knew without a doubt, and knew why he had hesitated. If Megatron was here, then he already knew Optimus was ready to send backup.

He would have been planning on it.

What he wouldn’t have been planning for was for Optimus to figure his plan out.

“It’s a trap.” He began, his voice always betraying him with a confidence he never had felt. “Have backup sent from the Eastern front, instead. Megatron’s jets will be expecting troops from us--from here--because we’re closest. If Magnus can take them from the Eastern fort, they’ll never know what hit them.” His hands gripped onto the support bar overlooking the operating station they were occupying. “The rest of you, get ready to fight.”

“Prime?” Prowl asked, uncertainly, not moving to relay his orders yet.

“Do it. He’s _here._ ” Prime grabbed his own gun, just in in time for a low rumble and sonic boom to reach their audials from the west wall. The building shook and ceiling lights swayed, eerie splashes of brightness illuminating the team of Autobots that he had come to call his own.

His forces.

Bumblebee looked up in admiration, and then jabbed the torso of the blue mech by him with his elbow. “He can figure anything out, can‘t he.” The mech nodded, with a grin, and handed him a gun, but Prime was already vaulting the bars and passing by the smaller, yellow Autobot.

Disconnecting from his jack, Prowl fell in beside him. The presence of the veteran was re-assuring, lending the Prime much-needed strength as he ran toward the front entrance of the bunker. Other mechs joined in, and he could see the door guard watching him advance, uncertain what their commanding officer was suddenly doing out here. “Get back!” He yelled.

They obeyed. He could hear a high pitched whistling, itching at the back of his receptors, quieting the group of mechs around him. He didn’t recognize the noise, but Ironhide did, and Optimus barely had a moment to process his full-blast “ _On th’ floor!_ ” before the heavy explosion knocked him off his feet.

He was right. They were here.

His feet were back under him in an instant, and he reached out to pull the nearest mech up, striding forward and offering a hand where he could. If the Decepticons were trying to get in the bunker, they‘d be battering this entrance, hard. It wouldn’t be long before a second blast hit.

This time he was ready for it. A wave of dust washed over him.

He coughed, his intakes sputtering, the sudden a rush of air particles carrying in the myriad of heated battle scents from outside to be processed by his filters. He could smell it all.

Metal. Concrete. “ _Megatron.”_

“Sir, how do you know?” The black and white bot asked, clearly perplexed at what could only be a lucky guess, but Optimus just grimly smiled. It was lost behind his visor, but not hidden from the glow inside his optics.

How could he explain the unexplainable to his Lieutenant?

“I think that it’s the anger.” He said, finally, confronted up ahead with two pinpricks of reddish light. Optimus raised his gun and fired, but when the two pinpricks refused to go out he planted his feet solidly, and charged.

“Sir?” Prowl queried, stunned…

But Optimus was already in the heat of battle, and all Prowl could do was follow.

Weapons clashed, and dark laughter echoed in the dust with Prime’s growl interlaced around it.

Megatron dared to attack his base. Megatron dared to attack civilians. Megatron dared to attack Cybertron, itself, and now it was just Optimus who was standing in the way.

No one else incited this sort of emotion in him, and he didn’t know why. Not even now, face to face, his processor struggling to put a different name to the silver that seemed so hauntingly familiar.

Even now, there was no one who could bring out the best in him.

There was no one who could make him this angry.

There was only Megatron.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


 

And even still, there was no one out there who could fight like Prime.

Megatron had long since given up pretending.

He _loathed_ the Autobot commander, loathed the principles that he upheld, loathed the weak who followed him…

But even after centuries of combat, there was nobody that caused so much anticipation or brought him so much sinister delight. He fought against the Prime and, in some ways, he fought _for_ him as well.

He fought to defeat him. To own him. To extract his brutal revenge.

He fought for the day when he, and he alone, would crush that beautiful spark underneath the textured groves in his powerful treads. It would mean victory at last over the upper classes who’d dared to subjugate his kind. It would mean victory at last against a mech who’d long denied to him the rights that he had fought to earn. It would mean victory, at last, and a stronger, freer Cybertron for all.

Fighting Prime made him feel really, truly alive. It made him remember why he fought, and what it was he fought for. It made him pleased, to see how harsh his enemy had become, how well he’d made his point that even the mighty could fall under the stresses of brutality. In his mind he’d _made_ Optimus Prime…

…and because of that, defeating Prime became the only way to give him peace. When Prime was gone, he’d finally have Cybertron. He’d have an army.

He’d have the will to spread his might, bringing the glory of his empire to half the stars.

Just half.

The others would lay dormant, untouched, and un-accessed. He still liked looking at them in the night, when his battles were over and the bitter, acrid sent of dry-singed energon drifted to him over the carcasses of conquered worlds. He liked to think on them, and the myriads of life they held, and he liked to think on how his enemies would never visit them.

These worlds he took from Prime were his, but those worlds up there? Those stars? Those were ones he would keep safe.

Those were the ones not even he would not touch.

Those stars belonged to the twinkling lights of Cybertron that reflected in his dreams. They belonged to red, white, and blue metal. They belonged to optics…blue ones?…that he couldn’t quite remember.

Someday, he would remember them, again. Some day he’d find the face that he kept searching desperately for, and he’d remember why it was important.

Someday.

Someday, he would give up half the stars.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Primus, this still makes me cry.
> 
> I admit to being pretty terrible at writing Optimus Prime. I keep reading through his section and feeling like its...just the voice in my head, and knowing that the voice in my head isn't right for him, but that's what is on paper.
> 
> Its probably not much of a surprise that I'd originally intended this story to end where the Soundwave section ends. When I first wrote it, Soundwave and Trion were both 'mystery' characters who weren't supposed to be revealed until the last, but...well, when re-reading it again later I thought it was a little too obvious so I just...let it be. And man, if I thought I was bad at Prime, I won't even touch how bad I am at Trion. 
> 
> Either way, when I finished up the last Soundwave section, the work just didn't feel done. I kept thinking about it, and thinking about it, and eventually I came back and wrote the last four sections all in one go. I really wanted both Prime and Megatron to have been unsatisfied with the way things turned out, and for neither to really understand why, but to *know* that there is something underlying. To *know* there is something that undeniably connects them. Push, pull. Good, evil. Balance, counterbalance. Whatever it is.
> 
> Destiny.
> 
> But Destiny that, just as easily, could have turned the other way.
> 
> And I like to think on that, and just...Imagine. 
> 
> What kind of Cybertron *that* might have been.


End file.
